


Poor Little Rich Kid

by Phanseyelash123



Category: Marvel, Spiderman - Fandom
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, harry deals w his issues, lonely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phanseyelash123/pseuds/Phanseyelash123
Summary: Emily left him.Peter left him.Norman left him.The only thing he had was alcohol.





	Poor Little Rich Kid

**Author's Note:**

> Underage drinking and dealing with body image and self doubt! Check out my other work for... less angsty Parksborn! I’ll prolly post more later!  
> -For a new friend

“Goodbye, Harry.” Peter said. He was a kid. So was he. It shouldn’t be as heartbreaking as it was. It was just a friend. A friendship between two boys who had no one else, a friendship between two nerds who cared for bugs and life. A friendship thrown to the side carelessly, as it should have been. 

It was his first and last experience with friendship. 

Honestly, Harry deserved to be neglected. He took their friendship and crushed it, destroying Peter’s project he put so much time into. While Harry won, Peter stared at him, the hurt on his baby face so evident. It still stayed with him that he had harmed his best friend, his family, all for a childish want to be finally be noticed by his father, maybe even seen as an equal, or even an opportunity, maybe a chance, maybe a something. 

After that experience, his mother passed, Peter moved to another school, so he was stuck with his neglecting father on days on end. It was... boring. Staying alone in his room. He painted from time to time, tried to do warm colours, but it always ended up being unfinished, discarded or forgotten. He had no friends, no one. 

At fifteen, he trotted down the hallway and into his dad's office since he was at Oscorp, and opened the large oak door. He slotted himself in and began to search. Took him a long time, maybe twenty minutes, to finally find the cupboard full of liquor and whisky. He grabbed them by their necks and went back to his room, pulling off his scarf, discarding his coat he wore for his own reasons, sat on his bed. 

He had not been drunk before. 

This was a bad idea. 

No one was home- what if he... died or something? Harry’s fingers trailed over the words of the whiskey, reading them over and over and over and over. 

He shouldn’t, he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t. 

He crossed his legs and stared into the deep and empty night, the sky stretched into a endless void of nothing, only textured by dark grey clouds of pollution, hiding the beauty of stars or the moon. He stared at his drawer, opened it. 

He ignored the multiple objects in it and pulled up a worn hoodie. It had clearly been light blue, but it was now faded with age and use. He fiddled with it, still hesitant, slipped off the shirt. 

Harry was too skinny for someone his age. 

For anyone, really. 

Ribcage. 

V-line. 

Collar bones. 

Bones. 

Bones. 

Bones. 

The almost humorously large hoodie slipped over his skeleton body, covering all his arms, over his thighs, so baggy it showed his pointed collarbones. 

This was Peter’s hoodie. 

Peter’s precious hand-me-down. 

The one Peter left when...

“Harry, I-I don’t wanna be your friend anymore.”

Coming home, rushing in, tears, tears, tears. 

“He’s not my friend anymore.”

Disappointment in Norman’s eyes. 

Worry covering each and every part of Emily’s being. 

“Oh, sweetie.” She tried, she tried to pull him him, tried to comfort him, tried to even look at the young boy in the eyes. 

He ran from her. Hid in his room. Cried until he fell asleep. 

Emily woke him up with his favourite meal- pancakes- but even the smiley food felt somber and forced to him. 

He came to school, and Peter was gone. He asked around. 

Peter had moved to another school. 

He wondered if he had anything to do with it, really. 

Harry’s scarily blue eyes wondered to the bottle again, which glittered welcomely with the moon that was now showing itself off, round, large, peaceful, staring at Harry with its watchful and never ending gaze. He wondered if Peter looked at the moon like he did. Like it was his only friend. 

Probably not. 

Nerdy, small, skinny, kind, glasses-wearing Peter Parker could make friends. 

He made friends with him, didn’t he?

Harry rubbed his tired eyes, swirling the liquid in the bottle. 

He had definitely forgotten him by now- it had been years. God, he was pathetic. Harry’s shoulders shook as a small sob racked his body, and he glanced to the picture of his mother and himself. 

Ten years old, smiling, a lovely gap between his teeth, his mother looking ill, but alive. And happy. 

They looked so happy. 

He hadn’t even realised he had picked up the frame until he was staring right at Emily. 

He missed her. 

Missed her so much. 

He had no one. 

No one. 

Poor little rich kid. 

A tear dropped onto his child face, the smiling face, the innocent face, the face which knew what friends and happiness felt like, the face he longer could recognise himself in. 

He had such big cheekbones now. 

His hair had grown over his eye. 

His eyes had huge eye bags under them. 

Ugly. 

He was so ugly. 

He cried again, pushing the back of his pale hand into his lips, trying to quiet the cries no one would hear anyway. If anyone did, it wasn’t like they would care, would they? He was just a poor little rich kid. The hoodie felt like it was weighing down on him. 

Maybe it was, with his thin arms, which only got thinner. 

Thin, dark hair, blue eyes, skinny, small, short, ugly, ugly, ugly. 

Harry’s mouth opened, only a soundless gasp left, then a exhale, an inhale, a sob. 

A wail. 

It went through his whole room. 

His whole bland room of dark greys, blacks, whites. 

The small body in the picture taunted him with such lovely eyes of pure energy. Pure wonder. Pure content. He had such a perfect life, and Harry was cursed to live in such a fucking shit one, only the memories to remind him of happiness. 

No one cares- just a poor little rich kid. A poor little rich kid who lost his mother. 

Another cry. 

Another blink. 

Another inhale. 

Another gasp. 

Ugly. 

Bones. 

Thin. 

Poor little rich kid. 

The frame went down. 

The bottle came up.


End file.
